Memento Mori
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. Kidlock AU. "Remember that you will die." John and Sherlock come face-to-face with their own mortality.


**Author's Note: After watching season 3 a few times, I gradually realized that a new kidlock idea was forming in my mind. Originally, I thought I would write two fics about John and Sherlock's brushes with death, but eventually I realized they really worked better together. So here you are, the next installment of my kidlock series (which includes "Inception," "Marooned," "A Study in Pink Nail Polish," "The Blue Scarf," and "Au Revoir."). This fic happens during the summer before "Au Revoir." And yes, the case they discuss at one point is lifted directly from the film Twelve Angry Men. An awesome movie, by the way ;) I also feel the need to remind readers that this AU version of Sherlock's family is very different from the canon version.**

John looked back on that summer as the happiest time of his life. Everything had seemed dull and grey since the day they'd gotten the letter that Captain John Watson, Senior, had died honorably in Afghanistan. Only the sudden and unexpected appearance of the strangest, rudest, and most _fascinating_ boy he'd ever met had managed to break through that fog.

As soon as the summer holidays began, John spent every moment he possibly could with his new best friend. It didn't matter where they were or what they decided to do; Sherlock Holmes always had some grand idea of what they absolutely _had_ to do, they hadn't a moment to lose, so come on John, follow me...

And John did. It didn't matter if Sherlock made him taste his questionable science experiments to see what would happen, or if John had to crawl under the foundation of his house even though he secretly _really_ didn't like spiders. If Sherlock told him to do it, he would. Because no matter how uncomfortable or risky the situation was, with Sherlock it was always an _adventure._ John had never imagined how much mystery and exhilaration the ordinary world held, but every hour spent in Sherlock's presence changed him forever.

Sherlock's favorite game, of course, was pirates. He was the captain, John was his first mate, and their makeshift skull-and-crossbones flag was an old Union Jack pillow cover with a skull scrawled in the center. When he was around, they would stage daring battles against Mycroft, but he was hardly ever at home, so they had to make do with what they could. After terrorizing the kitchen one too many times, John thought it wise to suggest they take their games outside.

Their constant companion in their games around the house was Sherlock's old dog Redbeard. He was a placid, lazy animal with floppy ears that John loved to stroke. Most of the time, he just heaved himself to his feet, labored slowly outside after them with his tongue hanging out, and flopped down in the shade with a sigh of effort. He watched them with his warm, golden eyes and often fell asleep, but Sherlock included him in their games all the same. He became the Dread Pirate Redbeard, who was so powerful he feared none of their assaults, but simply rolled over and stretched his coppery belly towards them so it could be scratched.

And then, when running all around the Spanish Main had worn them out completely, they would collapse in the shade on either side of Redbeard. John would stroke the old dog's soft, glossy fur and Sherlock would tickle Redbeard's belly with blades of grass until the dog licked his face to make him stop. Sherlock would roll away, giggling with carefree abandon until John joined in. In those moments, it didn't matter that Sherlock was odd, or that he was probably smarter than his teachers, or that he never seemed to understand that if you were rude no one would like you. In those precious, golden moments, they were just two boys and a dog, full of the joy of being young in a summer full of adventure and discovery.

But all good times must come to an end. The summer fades into the fall, youth ages and matures, and life changes with twists and turns that none can foresee.

One day, driving rain prevented John and Sherlock from following their usual outdoor pursuits, so they spent the day in Sherlock's room. John settled down for a nice, cozy afternoon of looking through newspaper clippings and humoring Sherlock as he paced the room in his dressing gown, trying for all the world to act like a famous detective.

"But what," he said dramatically, stroking his beardless chin, "_what_ was the motive?"

"I think the motive's pretty clear," John said calmly, munching on the biscuits they'd pilfered from the kitchen. "His father was abusive, so he killed him. It explains it all right here in the paper."

"But how could they even be sure it _was_ the son who killed him?" Sherlock demanded, scowling fiercely at nothing. "There's far too little evidence, my dear Watson. All we have to go on is the eyewitness of a myopic old woman across the street who saw their silhouettes through the windows of a passing train!"

"But the father was dead in the morning just the same," John pointed out, "and who would be more likely than the son?"

"All I'm saying is that the small amount of evidence leaves room for reasonable doubt," Sherlock said. "Am I right, Inspector Redbeard? You agree with me, don't you? Redbeard?"

John looked over at the dog curled up in his basket, where he'd been dozing all morning as usual. Usually, as soon as Sherlock said his name, his tail would go _thump thump thump_ against the floor, even if he'd seemed to be fast asleep a moment before. Now the dog lay completely still. A slow, horrible realization sank from John's head all the way down to his toes, and he stared helplessly at Sherlock.

The melodramatic, almost haughty look slipped from Sherlock's face, leaving it open and vulnerable. The small child who was often so well hidden behind the intelligence and bluster peeked out now, as he slowly stumbled forward and dropped to his knees by the basket. He reached with trembling fingers for Redbeard's still, silent head.

They remained locked in that position for what felt like hours – John staring frozen at Sherlock, Sherlock resting his hand against Redbeard's unmoving head. The rain hammered against the window, deafening in the silence.

Suddenly Sherlock surged to his feet and raced out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. For a moment, John remained where he was, still staring at the dog's body. Then, moved by a morbid curiosity, he crawled forward and looked closer. Redbeard looked much as he always did when he curled up in his basket, but there was something stiff about his limbs now, as though he'd dried up as soon as the life left him. Tentatively, John reached out and touched the dog's side, but he snatched his hand back almost instantly. The warm, steadily moving ribs were now cold and still, like a statue. John wanted to pull back, to tear his eyes away from this _thing_ that was no longer their companion of the summer.

But he remained at Redbeard's side, staring, staring until the dog turned into a reddish blur swimming and heaving in front of him. There would be no more sunny afternoons lounging under a tree with Redbeard, he realized. No more rolling around in the grass, laughing so hard it brought tears, as Redbeard licked Sherlock's face...

Sherlock.

John wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stood up. His own heart was heavy with the weight of Redbeard's death, but how much worse would it be for Sherlock? He looked out the window, and saw a tiny form standing on the edge of the ornamental pond in the front yard. John gave the dog one final look, then hurried downstairs after his friend.

The rain fell in sheets, and John was instantly soaked as he started across the lawn towards the pond, but he hadn't thought to bring an umbrella. Sherlock, still in his dressing gown with his blue scarf hanging limply from his neck, stood at the water's edge staring blankly at the rippling surface of the water.

John came to a stop at his side, wondering what on earth he could say. He remembered how he had felt when his father died, and the things people had said to him then. None of it had been very helpful. Nothing that anyone said could bring him back. So John just took his friend's cold hand in his own and said softly, "Sherlock."

"Davy Jones' locker," Sherlock said dully.

"What?"

Sherlock's expression was blank, his eyes unfocused even when he turned to John, as though he was looking at something far away. "Every seafaring man must go to his proper rest." He turned and trudged back up to the house.

John followed, still holding his best friend's hand. He said nothing as they walked slowly back upstairs, dripping all over the carpet on the way. Sherlock didn't stop until they were back in his room again, looking down at Redbeard's body. Somehow he looked even smaller than before.

Sherlock paused for a moment, then reached down and grasped the basket, heaving it off the floor. John hurried to help, and together they lugged the dead weight back down the hall. John glanced up at Sherlock, but the boy's stony grey eyes were fixed ahead, his jaw set stubbornly. Somehow, they managed to carry the basket all the way back downstairs and across the lawn to the pond. When they finally set it down in the mud, John's arms were burning and his fingers were cramped together.

But Sherlock bent down again, and gathered his dog's body into his arms. Redbeard was a big dog, but somehow Sherlock managed it. He tottered backwards as he stood up, almost falling over, but he righted himself and started walking forward. John raised a hand to stop him, but didn't have the heart to say anything. Sherlock just kept walking into the pond, cradling Redbeard's body in his arms with uncharacteristic gentleness.

The water rose past his knees, then past his waist, then up to his shoulders. John wondered if he was ever going to stop, or if he would just keep walking until his head was entirely submerged and he sank with his dog. But Sherlock stopped when the water was up to his chin, and slowly let Redbeard go. At first the body floated, drifting away from him, his fur fanning out in all directions like seaweed. But then he slowly sank into the black water of the pond, till once again all they could see were the ripples the rain made on the surface.

When Sherlock still stood there, staring after his dog's vanished body, John knew he needed to step in. He walked into the pond himself, catching his breath at the shock of how cold it was. The water seeped into his shoes and weighed down his shorts and jumper, but he kept going until he could grab Sherlock's hand again. "Come on," he said softly, tugging gently. "Let's go back."

Sherlock stumbled after him, but he still stared blankly ahead as though he didn't even notice John's presence. His hand was like ice to the touch.

* * *

When John went to Sherlock's house the next day, the gardener stopped him before he could open the front door. "The lad's ill," he said, massaging his lower back. "You can't play today, so you might as well go on home."

"Ill?" John looked up at the window he knew was Sherlock's, though of course he couldn't see in from the ground. "I should make sure he's all right!"

He hurried into the front hall, heart clenched with worry. He supposed he was probably overreacting – after all, it only stood to reason that Sherlock would get sick after standing out in the pond in the rain with no more protection than a dressing gown. But he remembered the listless, dead look in Sherlock's eyes, and it sent cold shivers down his spine.

Carefully, quietly, John pushed Sherlock's door open and poked his head in. The lumpy figure in the enormous bed could only be Sherlock. John tiptoed in, just in case Sherlock was asleep, and looked around. There was a bucket on the floor next to the bed, and a thermometer and glass of water on the bedside table, but other than that it seemed that Sherlock had been left to deal with his illness on his own.

Sherlock lay curled on his side in the bed, hugging his coverlet up to his chin. His dark, messy curls clung to his sweaty forehead, and his breath whistled raggedly through his open mouth. John leaned in closer and touched his wrist to Sherlock's forehead. That was always what his mother did when he was sick. Sure enough, he could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock's skin.

Grey eyes opened groggily and peered up at him. "I'm dying, John," he croaked.

A cold sliver of dread slid down his back, but John brushed it aside. "Don't be silly," he said firmly, straightening up and putting his hands on his hips. "Nobody ever died of a little cold." John bustled around the room, trying not to think about the empty space where Redbeard's basket usually sat. He ran cold water over Sherlock's washcloth in the bathroom, folding it over lengthwise the way his mother always did and laying it on Sherlock's forehead. Then he made Sherlock take his temperature and get a drink of water before he ventured down to the kitchen to see about medicine.

John remained by his friend's side the rest of the day, changing the cloth on his forehead when necessary, and looking through some books he'd found in the family library to find out how often he needed to check Sherlock's temperature. At noon, the cook brought him a cucumber-and-cheese sandwich, and a bowl of watery chicken soup for Sherlock.

Sherlock sat up, propped against the headboard with half a dozen pillows, and fussily poked at his soup. Munching on his sandwich, John relaxed a little. He chided himself for worrying so much; if Sherlock could even sit up and eat, then it couldn't be too bad... Of course, he had to revise his opinion once the excitement really started that afternoon, when Sherlock couldn't seem to stop puking into the bucket, until John was sure he would soon see his stomach fall with a plop into the bucket as well.

John stayed busy all that day, seeing to Sherlock's needs and trying to make him as comfortable as he could. But of course, he had to return home for dinner, and leave Sherlock all alone for a long night of misery. He returned the next day, and the day after that, watching his friend roll over and over, fruitlessly trying to find a comfortable position.

Sometimes, Sherlock would stare listlessly up at the ceiling, and John would wonder if he even wanted to get better. He was constantly aware of Redbeard's empty corner, as though the dog had left a dark stain on the floor when he left. Redbeard had been Sherlock's only companion for most of his life, a constant friend during the years after his mother had died and he had no one to talk to anymore.

Now that Redbeard was gone, would John be enough?

John supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when he started coughing on the fourth day. He stayed at Sherlock's side, trying not to let on how much his whole body began to ache as the day dragged on. Sherlock was apparently feeling better, because he kept ordering John around, sending him down to the kitchen to find his favorite snacks, demanding various books and notes for him to look at in bed that John had to rummage around the messy room for, and complaining every five minutes that he was too cold or too hot. John didn't say much, but did as he was told.

Exhausted by the time he stumbled through the front door of his own home, John bypassed the kitchen where his mother was fixing something on the stove, and shuffled back to his own room. He fell on top of the covers, and instantly fell asleep.

He lost all sense of time after that. He was briefly aware of his mother coming into his room and helping him into his pajamas and under the covers, asking him worriedly how he felt. A shifting miasma closed about him, and he no longer knew if he was awake or asleep. He was vaguely aware of people walking in and out of the room, and brief moments of cool respite, but mostly he just felt the pain. Seemingly never-ending coughing fits shook his whole body, making his chest burn and the muscles in his abdomen ache. He never seemed to have enough air, because every deep breath he took led to yet another coughing fit.

People were standing over him, their shadows falling on him from the light in the hall. They spoke to him, to each other, but he only blinked blearily at them, unable to understand what their words meant.

_...be all right?_

_...easy now, love..._

_...stop coughing..._

_...get his fever down, or..._

_...of pneumonia, but..._

But eventually, everything grew clearer. The fog drifted away from his mind, and he could breathe without coughing every time. Even the coughs themselves grew less painful. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slipped into a long, dark sleep full of healing. When at last he opened his eyes again, he slowly became aware of the pattering of rain on his window and the dull greyish light of a stormy midmorning.

"John?"

Sherlock, sitting in a chair next to his bed, leaned forward and gazed earnestly at him with huge grey eyes. He looked so small and lonely, like a child much younger than he actually was. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," John said hoarsely, trying to smile reassuringly. He'd never seen Sherlock look so...open. Like he didn't even care how he appeared to others, or didn't realize what he was doing. "I'll be fine, Sherlock. Nobody died of a little cold."

Sherlock sat back, hugging himself as though he was cold. "They said you had pneumonia. People die from pneumonia."

"Not much anymore," John argued wearily. "Modern medicine's progressed enough for-" He broke off, coughing. Sherlock immediately jumped forward, grabbing a glass of water by the bed and sloshing some of it onto his hand in his haste to give it to John.

Once he finally got his cough under control, John took another drink to soothe his throat and lay back on his pillow wearily. He handed the glass back to Sherlock, realizing how rare it was for Sherlock to leap to anyone's aid like that. "I'm on the mend, Sherlock," he croaked. "You don't have to worry about me."

Sherlock stared down at his hands, knotted around his scarf so tightly his knuckles were white. He was quiet for a long time, and John's eyelids began to droop, reaching for sleep, when Sherlock muttered something so quiet John could barely hear it.

"I can't lose you too."

"You won't," John said, stifling a yawn. He reached out a hand from under the covers, holding it out a little shakily to his best friend.

Sherlock hesitated, staring at John's hand like it was a snapping turtle. Then, slowly, he reached out and took John's hand in his own. John only had time to smile and squeeze his hand before sleep finally claimed him.

They were still holding hands when Mrs. Watson came into the room and found Sherlock dozing in his chair.


End file.
